Denise came to him the evening of Esmé's death to ask what he would do.
He was writing, making arrangements for the funeral.
"You let a woman be disgraced before the world, you let that boy whom you disliked go into danger where no baby should have gone," he said. "But you are Cecil's mother—so keep the position you schemed for—and no more."
The big man went back to his loneliness; he had loved strong Cyril, had dreamt of a boy who would run and shoot and swim and ride; and now, Cecil, injured by his fall from the cliff, would be lame for life.
Esmé sleeps in a graveyard by the sea; close by her a little grave with "Cyril, drowned the 21st of April," on it. And on her tombstone is the inscription: "She gave her life to save a child's."
Estelle and Bertie, living in the quiet country, happy, yet with a shadow of regret ever with them, guessed, as they came often to the grave, what the weak girl must have suffered.
"Judge no human being until you know the truth," said Bertie once, "for misery rode poor Esmé with a sharp spur across the thorns of recklessness. Poor Butterfly, whose day of fluttering in the sunlight was so short."
Yet, even with the shadow behind them, two of the players are happy, every-day man and woman with troubles and joys.
THE END